


Fanfic:  Loyalty Binds Him

by Mexta



Category: The Tudors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2011-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a continuation of a Tudors fanfic written by Bunnster, called <a href="http://bunnster.livejournal.com/454.html">Loyalty Binds Him</a>, available on her Livejournal.  I appreciate her permission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fanfic:  Loyalty Binds Him

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Loyalty Binds Him](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2721) by Bunnster. 



The first warm day of spring makes the men giddy. They ride out and stop by a large stream after a few hours, ostensibly to drink and give their horses a rest. One thing leads to another and soon they are pushing each other playfully from the shore to the water, which is still cold but inviting now that the sun’s rays finally reach the earth. The stream is swollen from the melted run-off, glistening in the noon light. A few of the men strip and plunge into the water to avoid falling in with their clothes, and a moment later the whole group is following suit.

Henry turns away, tending to his horse. He hears the voices behind him, Charles’ deep Suffolk brogue among them, as the men taunt and comment on each other’s exposed bodies, words drowned out by splashes as one after another follows into the water. For a moment he wishes he could join them; the thought of that glittering water sliding over his bare skin after this long, hard winter campaign tempts him almost out of common sense. But the king cannot bathe naked with his troops.* He reaches for one of the saddlebags, chiding himself.

And then he hears it, a long low whistle of shock or surprise, as the easy bantering comes to an abrupt stop. Henry pauses, puzzled, and turns in time to see Charles changing his mind, yanking his shirt back down over his head. As the white linen falls to his waist, Henry catches a glimpse of harsh red stripes running along his back, faded but still visible, before the fabric re-covers them. An unexpected sight in a man of Charles’s station; it had obviously sparked attention as he began to disrobe.

“What happened to you, man,” one of the men bursts out, unthinking. “You look like a whipped stableboy!”

Charles’ face reappears over the top of the shirt, burning with rage or humiliation, Henry isn’t sure which, and as he turns away his eyes meet Henry’s for a fleeting moment. The mix of anger, appeal, consciousness, and a kind of ironic resignation sends a shooting pain into Henry’s gut, and a second later he finds himself running toward the stream, ripping his doublet open and his shirt over his head.

The sudden movement distracts the men, and the sight of their stripping, exposed king racing in front of them transfixes them, staring.

“Last one in sleeps with the horses tonight!” Henry shouts hoarsely, not slowing down, and in his voice it is not a meaningless jibe but a threat.

The men left on the shore rouse themselves and hastily finish shedding clothes, so that by the time Henry cuts through the water with an almighty splash, the rest are right behind him. Except one, he knows, without looking back.

  
**********

  
Back at camp that evening, dusk falling, the men mill about, staking horses and unloading packs, readying themselves for the evening. Henry stands by his horse, a little apart from the others, telling the servant he will take care of it himself. He finishes but stands, stroking the horse’s long neck, till he hears familiar footsteps nearby. Reaching out, he grabs Charles’s arm and yanks him over sharply.

“It was that fool Clayton,” Henry grits out in a low voice. “Never could keep a civil tongue in his head. I’ll have him beaten if you like, I’ll … ”

“No.” Charles cuts him off, his voice even, soft but firm. “There’s no need. Thank you, Sire. But he did no wrong.”

“He – ”

“He said what everyone was thinking. It was my stupidity. I forgot myself in the moment.”

“How dare he speak to a peer in such terms?”

“We were men together. I surprised him. It’s nothing, Majesty.”

Henry’s resolve weakens, his outrage abating. “He had no business speaking to you that way,” he says, but it’s a token protest now. Already he is thinking of something else.

“I had no business baring myself if I didn’t want such comments,” Charles counters easily. “The fault was mine, Sire. _All_ of it,” he adds pointedly.

“Perhaps,” Henry concedes at last. He pulls Charles another inch closer, puts a hand on his shoulder blade. “How long, Charles? Will they ever … ?”

“Without doubt. Soon. Another month and there will be nothing visible.” Charles smiles slightly. “I’ll be able to swim before the summer’s over.”

Henry lets his hand drop, running along Charles’ back on the way down. He wonders, despite himself, if he would be able to feel those long, red lines beneath the fabric. Though he’ll never speak of them without reason – never has before – he can’t help his fascination, the way the damaged golden skin excites him when he sees it by candlelight in his bed.

Charles is watching him, eyes knowing now, and amused. “Shall I show you later, perhaps, Majesty? In your tent? You can see for yourself what progress I make.”

Warm relief floods through him. “Indeed,” Henry says, stepping back. “An excellent suggestion, my lord. I will see you then.”

And they head off, in opposite directions, each laughing a little under his breath.

  


  


\-----------  
* [](http://bunnster.livejournal.com/profile)[**bunnster**](http://bunnster.livejournal.com/) pointed out to me that the real Henry "would have totally bathed with his buddies". Ah well.


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